World Spins Madly On
by looks the same
Summary: Collection of shorts. The aftermath. Arizona POV, 2nd person. Rating subject to change.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is a collection of shorts. It will be moments between Callie and Arizona after the storm. They do not take place in order. It's meant to be confusing from one to the next. The point is to mimic Arizona's mind and the despair and loss that exists there. I don't have a goal here, more of a way to try and piece Arizona's characterization and actions. All feedback is welcome. **

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World Spins Madly On

1. Your Sedative is Clean

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She makes an appointment with you. Sends you a text, confirming the time and you respond with equal formality. You don't consider the context of the meeting. It will go how it goes. This is how you process things now, this is what you have come to expect of, well, of everything. She is waiting outside of your office when you arrive and your wife is still just the most beautiful thing you have ever seen. For a moment you get hung up on the tiny curls starting to appear around her face, the hairs closest to her forehead. She's just come from surgery and the sweat from her scrub cap has started this process. It makes you slightly nauseous when you consider how well you know, love, and then discarded the woman in front of you. You hold the door open for her, closing it behind you but not moving into the room. She sits in a chair and the action decides your own place and so you move to your own chair behind the desk.

You stare at her and she stares back. Her eyes moving over your face, a shadow crossing her eyes as she takes inventory. But it's not rage. You haven't seen anger on her face, not once during this entire thing. It's a new set of emotions that you have never seen her display but which sit on her face with a familiarity that screams they have been there before. Hurt. Rejection. Pain. Embarrassment. Shame. A whole slew of things that you put there.

"You're not eating" she starts.

The statement while true still throws you. It is not where you thought she would start. And while the actual question is appropriate, the emotion in her voice is blatantly out of place. Concern.

"No," you respond, voice void of anything but the one syllable.

You cast your gaze down and onto the desk. You are fading. This is what happens now and you have no control over it. Sometimes it's a colleague's look, cast over a file while inquiring how things are. Sometimes it's your daughter's eyes when they find yours through the glass window of the daycare, her small hand beckoning you to come inside and see her please. Sometimes it's your own reflection or another voicemail left by your father or a specific scream from the OR that has a certain quality to it that sounds an awful lot like Meredith weeping over Lexie's torn body. And then sometimes it is your wife's voice. Her kind voice that is inquiring about your health.

You disappear. Withdraw so severely that for a while this wonderful sedative seems to settle over your bones. Your sedative is clean. You are not in pain, anywhere. Everything just sort of clouds over and your leg finally doesn't hurt and your heart doesn't feel like it's bruising your ribs and your throat doesn't burn with the raging words that permanently live there.

"You've lost way too much weight Arizona." Callie's voice floats through the haze and you wonder briefly if this is the next thing she has said or if there were more sentences squeezed between.

"Yes," you sigh out. There should be grooves along the wood of this desk. You run your hand across it, wondering where the hell they went.

"Your prosthetic is too loose on your limb. You're almost limping because of it."

Again, she is right. Your physical therapist said as much and you heard him. But there is something just about how the rubber and plastic pinches into you now. It makes sense, to you in makes sense.

But it must not make sense to Callie because she continues. "You're not sleeping either."

You don't respond. There is nothing to say. You squint at the polish that the wood is slathered in, it's thick and flattens all imperfections. It strikes you for the first time how very ugly it is. You wonder if all the desks here are standard, are like this. Sanded down, lacquered up, shiny new.

"Alex tells me you perform, at most, four surgeries a week now? That you're barely even here?"

Callie's eyes bore into you and you feel the weight of them, willing something. What it is, you have no idea. You do not even have the capacity to wonder.

"You've missed the last seven board meetings."

More silence and Callie sighs in defeat.

"Okay. Fine," she says, her voice soft.

You finally will enough strength to look up from the grooves that do not exist.

Callie drops her chin a little, catching your gaze, trying to hold onto it. You don't know why. Why she is here. Why she is asking you questions that amount to how your health is. How such a person could even exist. Right now, right now it seems utterly exhausting that such a kind good hearted person could even exist.

"Arizona," she says and it is barely a whisper. "You're not doing good. People are concerned. I'm concerned."

Her voice is like thick fog. Sort of like the polish on this desk. You visualize it pouring out of her throat and coating the wood like too thick molasses.

"I can't keep being concerned Arizona. That's not fair."

Her voice wavers and she sighs out again.

"Okay, well I will get to it." She pauses and you blink. "Your dad called. Last month and then again yesterday. He says he hasn't talked to you for over a month. That you won't return his voicemails."

You look up at her. It never occurred to you that your dad might call Callie. It makes sense though so you gather the energy for a response.

"I'm sorry Callie. You shouldn't have to deal with that. I'll call him today." You push the words out in one breath.

"That's not the problem Arizona." All the sudden Callie's voice is sharp and it makes you jerk your head up and look at her. Her eyes are huge and there is emotion starting to collect there.

"He asked, he asked me some things. And, Arizona? He asked about Mark. You. You..." Callie is shaking a bit and you observe her starting to fall apart. It seems very far away. "You never told him about Mark dying?"

You blink, slowly. Once. Twice.

"I... I..." You have to clear your throat to choke it out. "I didn't want to worry them. They've, you know, been through a lot. And the plane crash just seemed too big."

That's the truth but Callie's eyes are welling up, the emotion swimming in her lids. "Oh." She clasps a hand against her mouth. Closes her eyes as the tears fall over. You should do something. Before, there would have been an action on your part to counter your wife's obvious pain but for the life of you, you cannot make your limbs move.

"They... they.." Callie sets her hands into her lap, steadies herself, biting her lip in horror between words. "They don't know? You're telling me that your parents do not know that your daughter's father died and that, that you, you lost your leg?"

You cannot move. You cannot speak. You are tired now. And the sedative is starting to wear off. Your leg throbs in response and it is the only, the only thing you are aware of.

Callie looks at you. You do not know what it means. You don't know anything anymore. She stands and she moves away, backing away as if she is scared of you, scared of who you are now. That seems about right.

Because you don't exist. It has been almost four hundred days since planes stopped flying. Four hundred days since you last felt whole. Except then there was a period of forty minutes. Forty minutes where you felt alive. Lauren Boswell touched you and you existed. For a short time you existed and it was between the sweaty touches and panting gasps of another woman and that? _That_ is the most horrifying thing you know.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: This is a collection of shorts. It will be moments between Callie and Arizona after the storm. They do not take place in order. It's meant to be confusing from one to the next. The point is to mimic Arizona's mind and the despair and loss that exists there. I don't have a goal here, more of a way to try and piece Arizona's characterization and actions. All feedback is welcome.**

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World Spins Madly On

2. Purple and Blue Paisleys

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You are lying in bed, alone and on your back, with no bed coverings except the paisley print sheet underneath you. You live here, apartment 502, by yourself now and it has been sixteen weeks since the night you fed that storm the last remaining bit of yourself. It has been one hundred and twelve days since that night and you still do not feel one single thing. It has been forty-eight hours since you last saw Sofia and that was through the glass of the daycare window. Because she has questions and you? You don't have an answer that won't frighten your three-year-old daughter. Your personal encounters with Callie amount to exactly eight thus far. The first was approximately ten minutes after the two of you stood there, storm in stark contrast to the whole silent room floating between your two bodies. And it was gruesome. What came after, after that, was somehow even more horrifying.

The second time Callie talked to you was twenty-four hours later when you trudged home to find her packing. Packing her own belonging and tiny Sofia belongings as well. You helped. Helped her gather her things, but refused to touch one single thing that belonged to your daughter. _What did I do? What did I do? What did I do? _played repeatedly the entire time. You stole glances of her face but it was blank. Stumbling in on her a couple of times, you found her leaning against things. The kitchen counter, the bathroom sink, the wall. Her hands braced against those solid surface with hunched shoulders and forced even breaths. She would look up to find you watching, silent. And then you went back to gathering her things.

The third time was sixteen days after that. She approached you, unexpectedly, in a conference room. She asked if you wanted time with Sofia and the question threw you so severely that you vomited your lunch into the waste bin, right there in front of your wife. When you started to hyperventilate, Callie found you a paper bag, held it to your face for you and the gesture was kind. But then you looked up at her face and it was all hard lines.

The fourth time was almost a whole month later. She made an appointment and the two of you met in your office. She knew. Discovered that your brief brush-offs about your parents, that entire year of recovery, were more about the fact that you never told them about the plane and less about them being too busy to come visit. Her eyes held a permanency to them after that.

Times five and six were short. Brief moments that were not at all made up of the same stuff as your other brief moments. Fists in an elevator, goofy grins in place. Hip bumps in the stairwell, lips reaching out. Cups of coffee, shoved casually into tired hands. Flashes of smiles. Flashes of smirks. No. These brief moments were not like those. Yet, somehow they still get to be the moments that mark up the makings of your life.

Time seven she didn't know you were there.

And time eight was just yesterday.

You wonder if you should make a change. Do something. Do anything. Derek Shepherd requested Alex Karev for surgery today. A surgery that four months ago would only have been done by you. Not that Alex isn't capable. The problem is that Derek found you not to be. You didn't even inquire or question. Your skill is still equal to that of before. It's your heart that is lacking and apparently they started noticing. You thought you'd have more time, more time before they started raising eyebrows at your diminished state. You bought your portion of this hospital fair and square. The cost being exactly one limb and a four month grace period seems awfully small. Karev and Derek can save baby spines. You decide to spend your afternoon drowning again in purple and blue paisleys, the scent of Calliope no longer running through them.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: This is a collection of shorts. It will be moments between Callie and Arizona after the storm. They do not take place in order. It's meant to be confusing from one to the next. The point is to mimic Arizona's mind and the despair and loss that exists there. I don't have a goal here, more of a way to try and piece Arizona's characterization and actions. All feedback is welcome.**

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World Spins Madly On

3. You See Vignette

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Two more hallways. A straight stretch, a sharp left turn, another long shot, a right and then another immediate right. The list appears, imprints on your brain. You cross off each directional step with dark charcoal pencil upon completion. Figuratively, of course. You're losing it but your sanity has not yet crumbled as far as delusional. Your hand opens the door and you cross though and into your final destination. Conference room. More importantly, dark outdated conference room that nobody uses. The door clicks behind you as you take the final steps across the space and sink into the sofa. But you don't let yourself settle in, lean against cushions. Not yet. Instead you hike up the pant leg of your scrubs and quickly undo your prosthetic, pulling it off and dropping it onto the other side of the couch, away from your sight.

Nine hour surgery. You ignore all other lingering thoughts. Nine hours is to blame. Your lack of self care is not. Your neglect towards training your muscles is not. Your physical therapy reduction is not. Your heavy steel-tipped heart is not. Nine hours. Nine hours. Nine hours.

You crack open the plastic lid of your salad, shovel a few green leaves into your mouth, cross your good leg under you. That's when the door opens.

Things shrink when Calliope is near. Tunnel vision in many ways. Your visions goes vignette. Temporary yet with a heavy dose of potential permanency that turns the edges, sort of rounds everything in. The center is where Callie's image should be, but instead she shrinks to a degree where your brain gets tired before reaching her and you quit. So you see her, but in this very detached and blurry sense. It probably means a whole shit load of psychoanalysis crap.

"I saw you come in here," she says.

You nod. Glance down at your empty pant leg. It is _not_ billowing in some imaginary wind yet that very specific fear still surfaces and propels action. You tuck the end of the garment up to where your leg ends and then kind of off to the side and under you. She watches the movement. Doesn't comment on it.

"We need to talk." Callie moves into the room, flicks on the light switch but nothing happens.

"The lights don't work in here," you inform her. Wave at the window behind you that has enough of a cracked blind to let in a small bit of natural light.

"Can I sit down?" She asks.

"Of course." You breathe it out.

Callie is being kind, obviously not here to fight anymore. Girl lost her fight, probably floated it out into that storm on the tail ends of your own. It all means something.

Callie has hope for the two of you. Callie is sane enough to not have hope for the two of you. Callie still loves you. Callie is indifferent towards you. Callie is scared of you. Callie pities you. Callie has forgotten you. Callie isn't good for you. Callie is too good for you. Callie is the worse thing you've done. Callie is the only good thing you've done.

Your brain doesn't resolve things anymore. Instead filters through half thoughts, incomplete sentences. Gives options but doesn't cultivate enough energy to actually contemplate them. You imagine in a few more months it will stop even doing that.

You don't care. You're done.

But you still have enough of yourself together to get a few simple facts straight.

Fact. You spent four days in the woods without your wife and it has affected your entire sense of self in a way that is massive and excruciating and not within your capacity to handle.

Fact. Callie made a decision to cut off your leg and it has affected your entire sense of self in a way that is massive and excruciating and not within your capacity to handle.

Fact. You do not have a left leg and it has affected your entire sense of self in a way that is massive and excruciating and not within your capacity to handle.

Fact. You hurt Callie by cheating on her and it has affected her entire sense of self in a way that is massive and excruciating and not within her capacity to handle.

"It's been a little over two weeks and, well, I'm wondering what your thoughts on Sofia were?" Callie rushes through her words, drawing you out of your thoughts. She's wringing her hands together a bit as she stares into her own lap.

She continues. "I know you and I are not okay. And, to be honest, I still can't even look at you, not really. I imagine you feel the same. But Sofia. I know you have to have thoughts on that and I want to be upfront from the beginning that I have no intention of not letting you see her, be her mother, be a part of however much you want to be a part of." Callie breathes a big breath out at that last part, like she practiced the precise words she wanted to use.

And with that one breath, almost as if it were riding along the air that surrounds her mouth and then across the space between the two of you and finally straight into your throat, comes this overwhelming and sudden, so sudden, terror.

Sofia. Sofia. Sofia. _Fuck_! You have a daughter. You have a daughter and for the last sixteen days you have forgotten you have a daughter.

"Arizona?"

Your chest tightens. Hard. It hurts! Your entire nervous system starts to fire in a way that is so obviously not natural. The panic rages, grows, grows, fuck! It is tight inside of you and you can't breathe. You can't breathe. YOU CANNOT BREATHE.

Sofia. Sofia. Sofia.

"Arizona! Are you okay!?"

You're gasping, suddenly your throat attempting to open and suck in oxygen. Callie is on her feet, speaking to you, shouting at you? You can't sort it out. Short gasps that barely pull enough into your lungs. You try! You try harder to breathe.

"I, I, I.." Your hands dig into your thighs, nails digging in so hard, trying to feel a sensation. It hurts! Your chest hurts! Sofia. Sofia. Sofia.

And then finally one big whoosh of air makes it into your body and it burns and you sputter out. Coughing. Coughing. There are tears running down your face and suddenly you know another kind of reaction is coming. And you need- you need- you need-

"Arizona!"

You push yourself up immediately, not thinking, eyeing the waste bin in the corner of this room. Sofia. Sofia. Sofia.

But you only have one leg. So you fall, hard, collapsing onto the ground. You feel your body being tugged at, it must be Calliope. You point at the trashcan, finally will yourself to shout at her to get it for you.

And she does and then you are retching. Throwing up that pathetic salad. And you heave and you heave and you heave. Sofia. Sofia. Sofia.

You have a daughter. You have a daughter. You do not have a leg. You do not have a wife. You do not have a sense of self. You do not have a concrete thought about who you currently are but you have a daughter. And you forgot. You forgot. You forgot.

There is nothing else coming out of your mouth. But you are crying because you can feel the wetness sliding off your face and swirling into the mess you've made. And you are on the floor and you still can't really breathe! And you can't move because YOU ONLY HAVE ONE LEG!

And then Callie is next to you and holding a brown bag in front of your face and making your breathe into it. And she yells at you. BREATHE. BREATHE ARIZONA. And you listen. You listen and you force your lungs to work. And finally, finally they do.

She keeps chanting it and you time your breaths with her words and you think she might have a hand on your elbow but you just focus on breathing. And breathing. And breathing.

Sofia. Sofia. Sofia.

The terror rises but you block it out. She tells you to breathe and right now that is the only thing that exists. The only thing. Calliope telling you to breathe.

And long minutes pass. Long long minutes. Until finally you yank the bag down and you mean to tell her yes, Sofia. Yes. You forgot. But now that she has reminded you. Yes. Today, you must see her today. Right now.

But instead all that comes out is that you can't.

And you're crying again. And you are telling her you forgot and that you can't. Because you can't even fathom taking care of anyone right now. Because you miss your daughter but at the same time, you don't. Because you no longer notice things, have opinions or the capacity to do anything other than simply, not die. Because your life right now feels like you are dying. And not wanting your daughter must make you an awful person and for some reason Callie doesn't know that. And she should know that. So you tell her.

That is what you say. All of that. Exactly that.

And then? Callie is still holding your elbow and the gesture is kind. But then you look up at her face and it is all hard lines. And she stands and there is not one trace of sympathy. Her eyes are dry. And she walks around you and pulls your prosthetic out from where you cannot reach it and sets it down next to you.

And she is not Callie right now. She is not your wife. She is not the woman that once loved you. Right now, she is a mother and she looks at you with hardness. And it crushes. Her stare is so so hard. And then she leaves and it hits you.

It hits you. It hits you.

You are proud.

Proud.

Because you married a _good_ woman. And she will not let anyone hurt her baby. And that, that makes you feel proud. And like maybe you did do one thing right. Because Sofia needs someone like that. Someone exactly like that.


End file.
